


Her fortress is a faithful heart

by caladria



Category: Little Women - Alcott
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caladria/pseuds/caladria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from Little Women. Laurie POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her fortress is a faithful heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelvetMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMouse/gifts).



'Tis hard for anyone to stand back and feel helpless in the face of crisis, and Laurie was just a boy, seventeen though he might be. And a good boy at that - something that was more than a little to do with the quiet soul that lay so ill next door, and the more boisterous one that nursed her. And he worried about them, he truly did. Oh, he tried to do his bit, amusing Amy and trying to assuage Jo's worry about her, but that was nothing, not really. He had the easiest chore, for Amy was only difficult in her worry, and that was worry he understood and shared. Because Beth _was_ sick - very sick, not just 'a trifle' like Hannah was wont to call it - and he dreaded to think what would happen if Mrs March wasn't here if -

But it wouldn't. Beth was going to get better, for there wasn't a girl more cared for in the country than that one.

Yet, the nagging doubt remained. The one that knew how it was, to lose close family, and to know that there were things that needed to be said, and done, and that if they weren't, regrets might plague a man - or a woman - for the rest of their days. And if he glanced a little towards grandfather's study, then, and thought of a man who'd lost a child, the family he'd had - long gone and never spoken of though they may be - then, well, that was a matter for him and him alone. There were some things a fellow didn't share, and sometimes a man just had to be grateful for little families next door that took him in as if he was one of theirs.

Which brought his thoughts back to Beth and decided his plan all at once.

He took the stairs two at a time, and rapped smartly on the entrance to the lion's den.

"Enter!" said a voice in a gruff tone, and Laurie pushed open the door.

"Well, boy?"

The tone was curt, and it made Laurie half halt, choosing his words more carefully. "Hannah still doesn't think that Beth is bad enough to call Mrs March," he said, trying to test the waters.

The, "Hmm?" he got in reply may not have been meant as encouragement, but it was in that way that Laurie chose to take it.

"But Jo looks worried yet," he continued, throwing in all the ammunition he had, "and Hannah still won't hear of you going to visit Beth, will she?"

"True enough," said the older gentleman. "But what does the doctor think?"

"He doesn't say much," Laurie admitted, "Not that I've heard, anyway. But he doesn't look happy, and every time he comes, Beth seems a little worse despite the good care."

"And you think you know better than those that are nursing her constantly?" came the inquiry, though there was only a pleasant questioning tone to it.

Laurie threw caution to the winds. "I think Beth is too sick, and that Hannah knows it and those girls don't!"

"If Hannah thought the illness desperate, she'd call for Mrs March," his grandfather pointed out. "She doesn't want to worry anyone unduly, but she wouldn't try and keep Beth's mother away if it were as bad as you seem to think it is, hey?"

"I think Hannah won't admit she needs Mrs March," Laurie said carefully, not wanting to discredit that formidable lady but also unwilling to agree with her. And he could understand, he supposed. To give in, to tell Laurie to send the telegraph now, well, that was just admitting that Beth was - that... That there was danger. That you wished for a thing to not happen so much that you forgot to prepare for it. And that was when things caught you unawares. Sometimes, things needed to be said.

His grandfather looked at him carefully, as if he were distilling truth from Laurie's expression. "And so what do you think should be done, then?" he asked, his tone less fierce.

A fact that wasn't misplaced on the younger of the two gentlemen present, and one that unexpectedly meekened him into wheedling. "Well grandfather, I was hoping you might have some ideas."

"Seems like you've some of your own bottled up and waiting to spill over," old Mr Laurence said wryly.

"I think that if Beth - I mean, if anything were to happen, Beth would want her mother there," Laurie said. For life without a mother there to comfort you was _lonely_, at times. "And I think Mrs March would want to be here."

"Hannah seems to have everything under control," his grandpa cautioned, "And stepping on her toes would be churlish at the best of times. She's handled more crises than you've had years on this earth, my boy."

"But she's _wrong_ this time," Laurie protested, showing a fleeting glimpse of the child he was leaving behind, rather than the man he was becoming. In time, maybe, those glimpses would disappear. But for now, they only served to make the old man frown.

The gentleman sighed, and looked away for a second. "I don't think that girl should be left unaware of the fact that her daughter may be - that Beth is seriously ill. I think that if Beth is as bad as you think - as we think," he corrected, when Laurie went to speak - "that she needs to be sent for, if she can be spared. Her husband is a good man, who wouldn't want to see his girls left alone to deal with this, I'm sure."

"So you think a telegraph should be sent?" asked Laurie incredulously. "At once?" He'd envisioned a long argument.

There was a sigh. "I think I'm being kept away for a reason. And I think you youngsters are too young to recognise real danger when you see it, and Hannah is too worried about disturbing people that need to be disturbed. She's done a fine job!" he cautioned, before Laurie could speak again. "A very fine one. But some things, mothers need to know. And need to be there for!" He nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with the decision he had come to in his own mind. "Send that telegram to Brooke - he will know whether it's safe to pass it on. For there's no use worrying their mother if she still cannot leave her husband's bedside, and Brooke will know better than we whether she can leave him or not."

"Yessir!" Laurie said, with relish, and turned on his heels without a by-your-leave and left. And if there was sadness in old Mr Laurence's heart over his ill young friend, he still couldn't help but marvel yet at the grandson he was so proud of. Not that it would do the boy good to hear that - not with those four girls to do that for him. And he prayed hard that there would still be four girls at the end of it all, for his old heart had taken more loss than one person should have to bear, and he wouldn't wish that greatest loss on anyone. Not on his worst enemy, and certainly not the daughter of a dear old friend.

It was hard to wait; those few hours of silence from Brooke were longer in the Laurence household than any other hours seen in a long time, and Laurie eyed the piano wistfully, wishing to play away his impatience and fury but unwilling to touch the piano that had become Beth's rather than his. Unwilling, too, to provoke happy memories of hours of music talk with a like-minded soul who was as eager for melody as he was. Beth may think it was altruism on his part, or a willingness to please Jo or Mrs March or Meg by looking after their quiet one, but truly, Laurie had missed talking like he could talk to Beth. And there was no hope of sharing his fears with his usual confidante, for she had forsaken romping for nursing, and had worries greater than he, despite Laurie's need for comfort. But finally, the maid arrived bearing a reply, and Laurie raced to share his response. "Coming tomorrow, as soon as possible," he blurted out, not waiting for acknowledgement.

"Thank God!" was the only response he got, though there was a sudden lightness in the old man's face at having discharged his duty as any man should. And if nothing else, his grandfather's reactions confirmed Laurie's suspicions that Beth was badly off - much, much worse than perhaps even he suspected.

"But mind!" his grandpa cautioned. "Don't tell those girls yet, for if something leads to a delay or a cancellation, then they'll be worse off than if they never knew in the first place." He looked at Laurie sharply. "Perhaps you'd better stay away, boy," he suggested, "for that friend of yours can read you like one of her beloved books."

But fate decreed that Laurie was to fetch the post the following morning, including the daily report of Mr March's health, and he trudged over, reminding himself to mind his tongue over recent communications. But when Jo laid her head so pathetically, in a manner that was so unlike her normal self, and voiced her wish for her mother, well, her Teddy couldn't resist cheering her and laying hope at her feet as an offering to her normal hearty temperament. For a Jo so without hope was something that he couldn't bear, and had to appease in every way possible. And the surprise might have been ruined, but he felt it well worth the sacrifice when she flew at him and became much more her usual self. And if there were something more to Laurie's happiness at Jo's reaction than seeing a good friend relieved, well, that's a story for another time.

He chafed at the waiting yet, though, tempered only by the knowledge that Beth was worsening, and that he could have sent the telegram a day earlier, and she could be here by now, and if she just missed Beth by -

But there was nothing that could be done except wait, and watch, and pray. And through that day Laurie did his fair measure of each of those, until his grandfather came over and paced, and paced, and paced, until Laurie's nerves were frazzled, as Jo would say. When Laurie rose to go to the station, he did so fearfully, for he wasn't sure what he would find waiting for him upon his return. But he forsake his own desire to watch over Beth for one whose need was far greater, and when Mrs March stepped off the train with a "My dear Laurie!" and a look of worry about her, he chastised himself for thinking that, even briefly. And when she embraced him as a mother would a son, he disentangled himself with a hushed, "Quickly!" and sped her as fast as he dared towards home and daughters.

He escorted her into her house, and whispered a greeting and a warning into the house, before chaos erupted as a happy family reunited, save one invalid given over to Brooke's care, and Hannah served up a breakfast with a dire warning to Laurie that he "weren't to go disobeyin' her all the time, now", though her face suggested that she was as happy as anyone around the table at the traveller's return.

And when he crept in to see the invalid, a few days later, and played her little piano loudly enough that she could hear the dear old tunes. It couldn't put a smile on her face, though, for there was one already there, with her increasing health, and her mother, and the news of her father's recovery.

And she put her arms about him in silent thanks, and he accepted it, pleased not only with the happy outcome but that "the quiet one" would welcome him with such ease. Such a thing had been hard earned, but a worthy endeavor that had paid dividends. And he sat, and chatted to her, and tried to make her laugh with some of Jo's more outrageous blunders - some exaggerated, some not, and when he went to leave, she asked, "It was you who sent for Marmee, wasn't it?"

He nodded in the affirmative.

"I worry that you shouldn't have," she continued, "for Father needed her so, just then." Then she smiled, and kissed him upon the cheek. "But I'm so, _so_ glad you did!"


End file.
